The man, affectionately called Vardha, sat silently listening to her. Her wily tone made him foresee a bankable option for his bootlegging and liquor business. After prohibition, Vardharajan—like many others—had decided to start his own local, illicit liquor trade. For this, he had also set up base in the marshy lands of central Mumbai and got his men to start brewing their own liquor.
After a long pause, Vardha took a deep breath and asked, ‘Will you get into the liquor business?’
‘Bhai, what are you saying? It would be against my qaum. I cannot do it.’
‘Listen, who is asking you to drink the daaru? I know so many Muslims in this line of work. Your religion doesn’t stop you from getting into the business. Does it?’ he asked. ‘Daaru ke dhande mein bahut paisa hain (the liquor business is very lucrative). Everyone, right from housewives to big businessmen, is into it and all of them are trying to make a quick buck from the government’s foolish policy.’
Jenabai did not say a word.
He continued, ‘Trust me, even I felt the same initially but today I am minting crores. God has been kind to me, which is why I am showing my gratitude by coming here every week. You can work in this business line and still be a good Muslim.’
‘What will I have to do?’ she asked.
‘See, I have this piece of land at Antop Hill. My men brew liquor there. Your job will be to sell this concentrated liquor. The profits will be divided equally between you and me.’
Jenabai was still unconvinced. ‘How much will I make ... if...?’
‘That depends on how much you sell. Maybe thousands, sometimes even lakhs.’ Jenabai thought about it for some time, balancing the pros and cons in her head. ‘And the risks involved?’ she asked.
Vardha smirked, ‘Don’t worry about that. You just need to know how to deal with the police.’
Finally, Jenabai’s face lit up and her jawline stretched as she broke into a cunning smile.
With Vardha’s help, Jenabai got into the bootlegging business in the early 1960s. Her Maharashtrian neighbour, Vicky bhai, soon went on to become her sidekick and financial manager in the trade. Jenabai’s age, experience and, most importantly, her ability to handle and manipulate the police, helped her grow swiftly in the business. Before long, Jenabai—now known as Jenabai Daaruwali—became one of Vardha’s closest aides.
Meanwhile, Vardha’s clout continued to increase. Press reports during the 1960s pegged his trade in illicit liquor to around Rs 12 crore a year. But Vardha wanted more—and the most lucrative business was considered to be the smuggling of gold. He could not break into the business alone, however: the Muslim dons—who had the right contacts in the Gulf—had the monopoly on it. So Vardha befriended dons like Mastan and Karim Lala, and they bonded to form a strong force. This was when Vardha first introduced Jenabai Daaruwali to Mastan.
Chapter 6
THE PROBLEM
I
t was 10 p.m., and the rains had become fiercer than before, covering the sky with a cloud of gloom.
Jenabai had finished eating the sumptuous dinner and was resting on the three-seater. Mastan had started pacing the floor in the drawing room.
‘Sit down,’ she told him, moving from her reclining position to give him some space. ‘Let us get to discussing the real problem.’
‘I have been thinking about getting into the real estate business for a very long time and have been eyeing a huge property on Belassis Road in Bombay Central,’ he said, as he dug inside the pocket of his kurta for a lighter. ‘
So,..’
‘The land is owned by the Chiliyas and they are refusing to budge,’ he said, lighting another cigarette. ‘That plot is a gold mine, Aapa. If I get my hands on it, I will not only be able to repay all my debts, zindagi bhi set ho jaayegi (I’ll also be set for life).’
Jenabai knew how much it must have cost Mastan to admit his helplessness in resolving the issue. He was always conscious of his public image—perhaps because he was defensive about his lack of education—and hated to appear anything but wise.
"What does Karim bhai have to say about this?’ she asked.
‘I spoke to him some time ago. But he told me that he may not be able to help this time around because it is beyond his capacity.’
‘Why?’ Jenabai asked.
‘At my behest, Karim bhai had sent some of his men to settle the matter. All the men came back with broken arms and legs. Aapa, these Chiliyas are way too powerful. We are just too small for them.’
The Chiliyas—Gujarati Muslims from Banaskantha district—were a very strong force. Usually in the hotel or real estate business, they were fiercely committed to protecting themselves and what they perceived as theirs.
Jenabai smiled. She looked around the drawing room and then lifted her fragile body from the sofa and walked towards the side table where pens and paper lay. Picking up a red ball pen and a sheet of paper, she came back, sat beside him and asked him if he would help her solve a riddle. Mastan was annoyed; he felt like he was being mocked. He did not reply but she continued, unperturbed.
Being illiterate, Jenabai had rarely used a pen. Today, she placed the piece of paper on the table, hesitantly held the red pen tightly in her right fist and drew a long vertical line in the centre of the blank page.
Then, lifting her head, she said, ‘Can you make this line smaller without touching it?’
Mastan was flummoxed. In a fit of rage, he punched the cushion of his sofa, and said, ‘Aapa, I have been mentally disturbed for weeks and instead of helping me out, you are asking me to solve this stupid riddle of yours.’
Jenabai smirked and then, pointing one of her gold-ringed fingers towards her head, she said, ‘Think Mastan bhai, think. The solution to all your problems lies in this riddle.’
Mastan’s anger slowly began to subside. His eyes shifted to the paper on the table. He looked at it blankly for some time and then, in a perplexed tone asked, ‘How?’
She broke into laughter, again held the pen in her fist and began to draw a bigger line beside the existing one. Then, lifting her head, she said, ‘See, it is so simple. If this line is big and you cannot erase it, just draw a bigger line next to it.’
Mastan wasn’t sure what was on Jenabai’s mind. But he knew that his faith in her had never been misplaced. She was shrewd enough to let go without giving him a solution. She had drawn the path. He had only to walk on it ...
Chapter 7
BOOTLEGGER TURNS
INFORMER
J
enabai thrived during the prohibition. She amassed enormous wealth as a boodegger and was quick to learn the tricks of the trade under Vardharajan, Mastan and Karim Lala.
Her closeness to some of the city’s most hardcore smugglers enhanced Jenabai’s importance by leaps and bounds. People would often approach her for advice and help in settling disputes. This, and the increase in her wealth, gave her confidence, and she became abusive and overbearing.
During this time, Jenabai also developed friendly relations with the police. Police constable Ibrahim Kaskar and his wife Aamina, Dawood Ibrahim’s parents, were like family to her. Their children treated her like a second mother.
This was the same time when the government and the police were again trying to implement prohibition effectively across the city. Besides the X Division, which had been introduced by former home minister Barrister K.M. Munshi way back in 1939, a special Prohibition Intelligence Section was created. The Prohibition Intelligence Section was headquartered at Palton Road (where Haj House stands today) and was responsible for effectively implementing ‘daaru-bandi’ in the city.
The police learned about Jenabai’s bootlegging business and raided her room several times but did not manage to gather anything from such raids, simply because she knew how to manipulate people. She would often place photographs of gods and goddesses in the corner of her room. All her liquor stock would be hidden in a chest or box below those photos and the police, during their raids, would assume th
at the space was sacred and refrain from searching that area properly.
However, after facing severe criticism for being lackadaisical about Jenabai’s illegal business, the special Prohibition Intelligence Section finally arrested her and she served a few weeks in jail.
In 1962, based on a tip-off, two determined police officers, sub-inspectors in the X Division, Coovershaw Dinshaw Bhesadia and Ramakant Temkar, managed to break into her house and catch her red-handed—finally busting one of the biggest liquor mafia scams of the time. After scanning all the rooms in the building, the officers finally found illicit liquor hidden in the water tank of Jenabai’s aide, Vicky’s room.
In 1964, sub-inspector CD. Bhesadia was rewarded by the then Mumbai Police Commissioner S. Majeedullah for his services and later, became one of the most talented detectives in the Anti-Corruption Bureau, retiring as assistant commissioner of police, Crime Branch. Ironically, Jenabai later went on to become a key khabri, or informer, for Bhesadia.
Unconfirmed accounts state that after her arrest, Jenabai approached the then chief minister Yashwantrao Chavan with grievances of harassment by the Pydhonie and V.P. Road police. She is said to have played on her poverty, her children and how she was trying to make ends meet. What transpired at the meeting between the two is still unclear; however, after the meeting, Dongri’s most fearless woman apparently moved on to become a police informant.
After her stint in jail, Jenabai realised that if she had to be a real player in the market, she would have to keep both the law enforcers and the ganglords happy. Jenabai’s smuggling know-how made her a valuable informant, and, at the time, informants were offered ten per cent of the total worth of the goods seized. However, cunning as always, Jenabai did not stop her bootlegging and grain business.
As an informant, she daringly visited the houses of police officers after midnight in a burqa. Families of police officers, for whom she was a key informant, would address her as Hirabai, because they saw her visit their homes wearing diamond-studded nose rings and earrings.
Another police informant, who still lives in Dongri and runs a shop of his own, explained how Jenabai would juggle the interests of the police and the mafia. ‘If illegal items were being smuggled from seven different ports in the city, Jenabai, who knew about all seven, would drop the names of only one or two. The police would seize the goods and then give her part of the valued amount without realising that she was aware of the others, as well,’ he said. And since it was only a couple from the seven that they knew Jenabai was aware of, the dons believed she had nothing to do with the raids. Thus, she remained a favourite of Mastan and Lala.
Ironically, Jenabai—who had accumulated immense wealth through tip-offs—lost her most prized treasure because she didn’t learn in time about the plot to murder her youngest son, Kamaal Darwesh.
Kamaal, at twenty-four, was not only an aggressive youth, but an extremely arrogant one too. Like his mother, he was also heavily involved in illegal businesses, but his attitude paved the way for his downfall, since the Mumbai mafia began to feel that Kamaal had become too big-headed. One morning four men stabbed Kamaal to death a few metres from Jenabai’s house near Minara Masjid in Dongri. Jenabai was not in town at the time. The news of the death of her youngest son came as a big shock, mentally crippling her.
She took to her bed, crying profusely day and night, cursing and blaming her clout for his death. For the next six months, she visited his grave every day, sitting beside his tomb and praying for his soul. Then her attention turned to the men responsible for her son’s death. She left no stone unturned to track down the four men. Sorrow had taken over her life, and so had this obsession. Finally, Mastan and Lala, concerned about Jenabai, decided to take four men to her and tell her that these were her son’s murderers. The men were made to sit in front of her and then Mastan and Lala proceeded to dissuade her from taking any action against them or going to the police. After much coaxing and religious arguments, Jenabai decided to forgive the men who had allegedly killed her son.
Chapter 8
THE SIMPLE SUBTERFUGE
M
astan had deliberately left the windows ajar so that the cold, wet breeze could enter the drawing room. He was still smoking his cigarette, glancing now and then at the two lines Jenabai had drawn on the paper that lay on the centre table. By now Jenabai was sitting on the floor, where she felt most comfortable.
Pointing to the bigger line, Jenabai said, ‘This line represents a bigger force. A force that you will create.’
‘A bigger force?’ he asked.
Jenabai made herself a paan and said, ‘Yes, you will prepare a bigger force against the Chiliyas.’
‘Where the hell can I create such a force from?’
‘What are the Ibrahim brothers and the Pathan gang for?’ she asked, chewing the paan. ‘Get them together.’
At the time, the Pathan gangsters—Amirzada, Alamzeb, Shehzada, Samad Khan—and the then underdogs, the Ibrahim brothers Dawood and Sabir, were the two major warring factions, constantly involved in gun battles. The incessant bloodshed caused by the gang war had, in fact, become a great cause of concern for Mastan and his friend Karim Lala, the stalwarts of Mumbai’s underworld.
And from what Mastan could understand, Jenabai wanted him to bring these two gangs together as one force against the Chiliyas.
‘This is no solution, Aapaf Mastan said, astonished. An alliance comprising the Ibrahim brothers and the Pathans meant calling a truce, which in the present scenario was impossible. For Mastan, even bringing them together into one room seemed an unlikely scenario.
‘Bhai, if you get them together, it will only help you,’ she said. ‘The Pathans are a strong force to reckon with in VP and Grant Road, while Ibrahim’s sons have a stronghold in Nagpada. And the Belassis Road property that you have your eyes on lies exactly in the centre of Grant Road, VP Road and Nagpada.’
Mastan was surprised at Jenabai’s observation. ‘Hmm ... that is true.’
‘Imagine, if you all unite to become one force, even the government will stand no chance against you. The force will not only help you get the property but also ensure that it is well protected.’
The odds of calling a truce were still close to zero but Mastan realised that this was probably his only option.
‘I can request Karim bhai to convince the Pathans. But what about Ibrahim bhai’s sons? They will never agree to this. Even Ibrahim bhai is fed up; he has no control over them.’
Dawood Ibrahim, a young man in his twenties at this time, was just another wannabe gangster, trying to make it big in the underworld. A resident of Mussafir Khana near Dongri junction, Dawood indulged in petty extortion, along with his brother Sabir, He was trying hard to get the attention of the mafia bigwigs; often, in order to evade the police, he was forced to go into hiding.
‘I will handle the Ibrahim brothers. Dawood and Sabir are like my sons. They won’t refuse if I speak to them,’ she said.
‘Aapa, it is not as easy as you are making it sound. At the end of the day, how will you convince them to become a united group?’ Mastan asked.
Jenabai smiled. She knew the one thing that bound them all. ‘Bhai, think carefully,’ she said. These people are morons. They have been fighting without any real motive, like goons, allowing others to take advantage of them. But, even though their egos are bloated like air balloons, their weaknesses can bring them down. And to our good fortune, there is this one weakness which is common to us all. Their ambitions and powers can divide them, but in the end, they belong to that one same world.’
‘It would save so much of time if you put all this in plain words for me,’ Mastan said, agitated.
‘Hmm ... it is simple. See, we all believe in one God, we know the teachings of one Prophet,’ she said.
That is all rubbish. None of them actually follow the teachings of Islam,’ Mastan said.
‘You hit the nail on the head. Ultimately, these men are all hypocrites. They won’t foll
ow the right path that our religion has laid down for us, but are ever willing to don the garb of protectors of Islam and shed blood in the name of God. Invoke the name of religion—a truce will follow,’ Jenabai said.
For the first time, Mastan felt small in front of Jenabai. She not only made things seem possible, what she had said was something that had never struck him before.
He was still doubtful though. ‘We have to figure out a way to bring all of them under one roof...’ he said.
‘Don’t worry. Everything will be fine; I will ensure that it is made possible.’
‘Can I trust you with this?’ he asked.
‘Do you still have doubts, Bhai?’ she asked, shaking her head as she rose from the floor. ‘I need to go now. It is quite late.’
Mastan called for his black Mercedes and walked Jenabai to the car. As the car left Baitul Suroor, the lights in the villa gradually dimmed and faded to black.
Chapter 9
THE VERSATILE PLOTTER
T
he sun on her face woke Jenabai. She made an attempt to turn away from it but the brightness in the room killed her desire to sleep any further. She finally got up at 9.30 in the morning. None of her children or grandchildren were at home, she knew. She peeped outside through the large square window of her Dongri room. Jenabai still hung on to her tiny house despite having so much money, because she was attached to it.
Cars, buses and two-wheelers moved at a fair pace and it was routine business at the shopping stalls below. The roads were dry and there wasn’t the slightest indication of the previous evening’s downpour. Someone from below called out to her, ‘Jenamaasi, salaam!’ She returned the greeting and returned inside; she was in no mood to engage in small talk. She had suffered a sleepless night and the restlessness was making her head spin.
She realised that she had made a heavy promise to Mastan, and she was already feeling its burden on her shoulders. Jenabai was not used to making empty assurances to the people she cared for. And though she might have convinced Mastan that she was able to handle the situation at hand, she knew that convincing Dawood and Sabir would be difficult.
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